Dear Jack
by PirateMistress
Summary: JE, WE.  A oneshot postAWE epistolary fic. Sad.


Dear Jack, a oneshot post-AWE epistolary fic. J/E, W/E. PG, 6,000 words.

This fic caught hold of me and wouldn't let go, and so I pass it along to you. My only warning is that some may find it rather sad. I am also upset that does not permit the text formatting of "strikethrough," as I had done with parts of Jack's second letter.

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_Captain Jack Sparrow_

_care of the Kind Innkeeper at_

_The Faithful Bride_

_Shoat Alley_

_Tortuga_

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_September, 1756_

Dear Captain Sparrow,

I should say that I hope this letter finds you well, but I do not know whether it shall find you at all. I can hardly address a letter to a ship in the middle of the ocean, and so I have sent it to the care of a place you are almost certain to frequent in the hopes that it will reach you. Please spare the innkeeper a coin for his trouble, that is, of course, if you happen to have any.

Upon returning to Port Royal I found a letter waiting from Mrs. Martha Newby, a widowed aunt of mine in Lowestoft, Suffolk, and it is from her home that I write you this letter. Though she was much aggrieved to learn of my father's death, she has graciously offered me a place here, as she is alone, and the cottage is small but there is enough space for the two of us. On clear days you can see the sea from the front windows, and there is a table where I may sharpen my quill and write.

I write to you in the hopes that you can deliver the enclosed letter to my husband. It may seem strange to assign you this task, but I despair of meeting the_Dutchman_ while closed in this cottage or walking to market, and ten years does seem a frightfully long time to pass without an attempt at correspondence. I ask you to deliver the letter, in confidence, if you have occasion, as I have no other means of communication with him, and I believe he should want to know what is written in it.

I ask you to answer me promptly to assuage any suspicions that my letter hasn't reached you, that it has perished at sea, or you have; write to me of the_Pearl_, of Gibbs and the others, if you can, for while I am safe and well-fed here, I might admit Suffolk is otherwise dreadfully dull.

I remain, as always, your King,

Elizabeth

_December, 1756_

Most Highly Esteemed Elizabethan Majesty,

Your letter has found me well enough through our Kind Innkeeper, though it finds me unfortunately short of coin, as he was not quite kind enough to release the letter to my possession until I had fully settled my debt with the tavern, the which, as you can most certainly imagine, including consumption of liquors and destruction of property, was considerable. If we mean to correspond whenever I am in port, then I suppose I shall have to run up a debt elsewhere and only come to the Faithful Bride for the post.

I have not had occasion to deliver your missive to our mutual acquaintance William Turner, the Younger, though I did have occasion to read it. Don't fret, darling; I sealed it back up again quite nicely, and I offer my heartiest congratulations to you both and fondest wishes to the lad_in utero_ for better condition of health than that which I have been subject to in your company. If it be a lass, I recommend a general warning be posted to the parishioners of your county and the public at large, to keep arms close at hand and any liquors stowed securely in the cellar.

As for the _Pearl_, she is out from under Barbossa's tyrannous hand and responding beautifully to my more knowledgeable touch; Master Gibbs' state of being is best described as "inebriated," though as I write this, he loudly objects. In honor of Twelfth Night Ragetti has suggested there be a sort of play aboard ship, and I must close this letter, as I am due to be transformed into either Viola or Orsino, I am not sure which, in a quarter of an hour.

Tell me of Lowestoft, if there's anything to tell. If memory serves, you are as far east as England will permit.

I await your reply, as I am always your finest Captain,

Jack Sparrow.

P.S. I humbly suggest Jack for the lad, if he's to be a clever seafaring sort, though I might imagine there are some (who may captain the _Dutchman_) who might raise an objection to it; in that case I recommend John, and counsel you against anything beginning with _W_, in the hopes of preventing widespread destruction caused by the large gusts of wind that would no doubt result from all of the heads turning in unison at your family dinners.

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_March, 1757_

Dear Captain Sparrow,

Your prompt reply is most greatly appreciated, as I know you must have written me soon to have had the letter carried on a ship that arrived several weeks ago. There's a new mail coach in Suffolk and it brings mail rather speedily from London, for which I am also grateful.

Spring in Lowestoft. It is lovely here, a bit windy at times on the shore, sparse clouds, not like the Caribbean. The flowers are beginning to bloom, not that I can see them on the ground, for my feet are quite eclipsed by my great belly. It is so large you would think I had swallowed the_Pearl_ and everyone upon it. Instead of containing a rudder and a lot of sails (didn't think I remembered that, did you?) it contains only one babe, who has begun to kick impertinently at odd times throughout the day. If he is a boy, he shall be John Weatherby. I have not decided for a girl, but I had thought about Charlotte.

Nothing terribly interesting to report of life here at the cottage. We live simply but well, though speaking of wells brings to mind what may be my only complaint: the well water here has an odd taste, yes, odder even than what we had from the barrel aboard ship. It looks clean enough, and I've begun cutting it with a bit of brandy or rum. I drink little, and the babe shall have none – he or she shall drink milk until old enough for wine or ale.

Have you yet succeeded in delivering my letter to Will? While I resent your extremely presumptuous action in the reading of my private correspondence, I must admit I'm glad that someone knows of the babe besides myself and Aunt Martha. Will shall not witness the birth, I am certain, however, I take some comfort in the knowledge that the babe is at least in your thoughts.

Aunt Martha says that women behave strangely at this time, and so I don't mind confessing that I sometimes spend hours watching the ships come into the harbor and depart, much as I used to do when I was a girl.

As ever, your monarch in exile,

Elizabeth

_June, 1757_

My enlarged or perhaps cocooned Monarch,

I proudly report delivery of your most critical correspondence to one Captain William Turner, whom I had the fortune or misfortune to see not far from Tortuga where a ship had wrecked on a coral reef. He was delighted at the news, though somewhat disappointed that he won't be seeing the lad (or lassie, God help us) until he's (she's!) nigh ten years old.

I assured him that I would bring him the most accurate reports available, if only we could arrange a sort of schedule. However, he insisted that was not possible, and sends you his regrets as well as his love.

I enclose both, metaphorically, and wish to close with the assertion that the droplets on this parchment are not rain from a storm about to dash us upon the rocks, nor are they Will's tears elicited for your perusal, but a splash of rum resulting from an unfortunate scuffle with Jack the Monkey.

Most sincerely, the most greatly appreciated,

Captain Jack Sparrow.

P.S. Gibbs also encloses his love; this ought to be a heavy letter.

P.P.S. Ragetti and Pintel send you their warmest wishes.

P.P.P.S. Marty Bloody hell, everyone sends a big whopping cargo of oozing warm sentiments, and I've run out of space on the page. Yours Jack

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_August, 1757_

Dear Jack,

Forgive my lack of formality, but I have only until John Weatherby wakes from his nap to finish writing you and send this with a boy to the village. I cannot convey to you how beautiful he is – not the messenger boy, but John Weatherby – and I only wish his father could see him and know some of the joy that I have known.

His nose, I can already tell, is Will's. Straight and strong, not thin like mine. I am not sure about the eyes, as they are still too light, and his hair is soft and brown as you might expect. One more thing I must remember to report; most times when he cries he wants to be fed, or he's uncomfortable or some other bodily ill that it is my duty to rectify. But sometimes he wakes in the night, often, actually, and won't quiet, even after feeding and all that. I carry him outside, down the paths that they call "scores" here, and we sit by the reeds at the shore. He watches the waves come in, Jack, and the moon on the water, and he quiets. He loves the sea, though he is not even four months old. It astounds me and terrifies me, too, that someday I may have to watch him sail away.

I have not as much help with the baby as I had hoped from Aunt Martha, as she's been ill, and I've been tending her in her room. She's taken a terrible cough, and I fear to let the baby near her or to stay too near myself. She is a kind woman, and I shall be very sorry to lose her if things continue as they have.

John Weatherby has woken, and I can tell from the particular tone of his wail that he's hungry, and so I must conclude. Please show this letter to Will if you see him, and pass along my love, taking, if you wish, a small piece for yourself in gratitude.

Yours, a bit smaller, but no less mighty Regent,

Elizabeth

_October, 1757_

My happily shrunken but stalwart Mistress Sovereign,

I am overwhelmed by your generosity of sentiment, and sincerely hope that you have retained enough to lavish on dear young sailor-to-be J.W. whose birthing process I am grateful you neglected to describe, and to whom I wish the best of health.

In regards to health, be kind to your ailing Aunt, as if it weren't for her hospitality, you would have had to consider entering such unspeakably shameful livelihoods as Piracy. Or Whoring, although if you do decide to enter that one, please inform me in enough time for me to make the crossing in decent weather.

I met Will again (coast of Barbados) after a bad storm, and I related to him your feelings and the necessary information as described in your letter. There was an unseemly amount of embracing that led me to fear I would not be permitted off the _Dutchman_, though I did escape after promising to relay a great lot of embraces, kisses, etc., etc., along to you.

I would prefer to deliver these in person, naturally, but the fair weather's reached an end for this year. Nonetheless, with your assurances that Lowestoft is in fact possessed of a harbor, you might keep such a careful eye on the ships as you have been, come the late Spring.

All the love I can spare from the Sea (which is regrettably very little),

CJS

P.S. I shall no longer transmit feelings and saccharine musings to and from you and your beloved; seal them and enclose them, for our stores are too valuable for me to risk vomiting up any provisions recently consumed.

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_August, 1758_

Dear Jack,

As this is our first correspondence since your visit, I hardly know what to write, except that I am left strangely affected by our time here, in this dull cottage by the sea. I haven't written sooner as I'd been feeling unwell at times, though now I seem to have recovered. This is not a letter for Will's eyes, nor the ones to follow, I imagine, and yet I feel compelled to write them, perhaps to relive some moments that I know shall never come again.

I did wish Will could have met his son as an infant, I did wish that, and yet you cannot possibly know how much it lifted that burden from me to see you carry him to the shore, to show him how to build a fort in the sand – though I was sweeping sand from my bedroom for a week – to watch the two of you, fast asleep in that rocking chair by the window, both unabashedly naked, while I stared and wished I had been one for charcoals or paints.

It had been so lonely here since Martha died in the winter, so quiet with just myself and J.W. (as you've dubbed him), but that was not why I longed to see you. You shared in the reasons for that, and I shall never set foot among those reeds without remembering the hours we spent there, as I saw traces of you everywhere in the cottage after you had gone.

You said you understood why I could not leave with you, but I write my thoughts again, in the hopes of repairing what I feel has been damaged. I love my son, I love him and would protect him with my life, and that is what I am doing. I will stay where it's quiet and safe, for his sake, even if my heart might yearn for journeys and danger. There are other reasons, too, that I find difficult to explain just now, but perhaps I shall be able to, in time.

I don't expect another visit any time soon. I have no right to demand one. If it is any comfort to you, you may know that your proud King longs daily for your presence in her kitchen, in her garden, and other places.

With most of my love, as you know why I cannot send all,

Elizabeth

_December, 1758_

Dear Elizabeth,

Forgive me for the tardiness of this reply; your letter reached me in October and I had not time to answer properly before we put out again and we made port just before Christmas.

I never asked for elaborate justifications of your wishes to remain, only if you would go. J.W. is as good a reason as any not to risk anything, although in my profession there is a saying about nothing ventured that I shall not condescend to repeat here.

Haven't seen Will, though perhaps that's a good thing, since he's clever for a blacksmith and would probably smell something off.

I am sorry to say our correspondence has become a burden on my safety and profits; I simply cannot put into Tortuga reliably, or regularly, without risking a planned attack on the _Pearl_, which occurred on our last stop in port. Please write to me of J.W., and your letters shall wait until I am able to retrieve them.

All of this, of course, easily rectified, were you to book passage while the weather's fair and come back to Jamaica, where we could exchange pleasantries, and other things, in person.

Much of my love on the top of J.W.'s head, and the remainder where you will.

Jack

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_September, 1761_

Dearest Captain Sparrow,

I hope this letter finds you well, as it has been quite some time since we've corresponded. Family responsibilities keep me busy, although the primary purpose of this letter is to inform you that J.W. has been accepted to the parish school, and the vicar says he's talented at maths but less so at letters.

I can see that we, too, are not so talented at letters, for it has been nigh four years since we've exchanged our news. I've not seen Will. Four years remain before I shall do that. I ask you kindly for any word of him, and to pass along that myself and J.W. are well.

We had been well when I last saw you, mostly due to what Aunt Martha had squirreled away, but that was gone soon after you left. I am pleased to report that there is a family here in the business of crafting beautiful porcelain, so fine that the folk come from all the country to purchase it, and some merchants for trade elsewhere. He found himself in need of a clerk for his ledgers and pays me a modest sum for my daily assistance in that regard.

It is yet another reason why I cannot bring him to Jamaica, as I once hoped. This is our home. If you could see him, Jack, how big he's grown and how he smiles, just like Will. He also climbs trees like a monkey, and I am quite glad I rejected your suggestion of Jack as his name.

I await any word from you, at all. Please tell me you're well.

Your eager King,

Elizabeth

_February, 1762_

My dear King,

If there were any doubt that Will sired that boy, it is now eradicated. Climbs, monkey? Poor at letters? If you wish to disown him I hear there are Homes for that sort of thing. Actually, I passed a bit of time in one at ten years old, but that's a digression for another time.

I might mention that these waters aren't what they once were. Many patrols, seizing the old haunts, even a few raids here on old Tortuga. Our kind innkeeper (whose name is Eddie McKay, in case you ever wondered) has asked an additional coin for the added peril of passing along letters to known pirates. I fear it shall only be harder for us to write, and I implore you once again to consider crossing in the spring.

Children adjust to new places, don't they? Didn't you? Don't hide behind J.W., Elizabeth; hiding has never suited you, and I've never asked for any explanation, let alone a false one.

I am sorry to say that I have not seen Will. I will be certain to write if I do.

Your captain and loyal servant,

Jack Sparrow

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_November, 1772_

Dear Jack,

Surely it hasn't been nine years since we've written, and yet to look at my bundle of letters, it seems that way. I know the truth of it: I remembering hiding them when I thought Will might be here, for we had such little time to lose any quarrelling. As it turns out, I went to meet him with J.W. and Will and I never did return to the cottage that day. I find it difficult to believe that was already six years ago. All this to say that somewhere there's a pack of letters from you, eight years' worth, and in thinking of some things I feel compelled to tell you, I had gone looking for them to see if I'd slipped. Doubtless J.W. will happen across them someday and have a good laugh at his mother and Captain Jack.

He is grown so big, taller than me, and he's a loyal son; he's been tending me in this illness I've taken. Please don't worry; it seems to be an awful cough and a fever that lingers, and perhaps it shall linger through the winter and be gone in the spring. I admit I worried at first, since Aunt Martha had a similar disease, but she was older and frailer and I've a strapping boy to care for me. He is fourteen now; no, perhaps fifteen.

You should come and see him, Jack; he'd love a visit from the uncle I tell such wonderful stories about. Perhaps in the spring, when the weather's fine and I'm better. There are things I'd like you to know, that I haven't seen fit to share in letters. Have you heard anything from my husband? Please don't mention my illness to Will, as it will only worry him. I also apologize for the very poor penmanship. I'm not sure if it's my eyes or my hand that won't cooperate.

Do you remember the afternoon we spent with the shutters flung wide? Do you remember the sand in the bed and the rug? Tell me something you remember; not having left this bedroom in a month, I feel as though I've forgotten so much.

Your weary monarch,

Elizabeth

_January, 1773_

My stubborn and most unsubtle Sovereign,

This will be brief, as it serves only to say that we shall sail as soon as we've sold our loot, re-provisioned and have some clear weather for the crossing. Given the frequency of patrols and the most uncooperative weather of late, I must plan our route carefully, and the crew is rather intolerant of risking their necks at my whim just now, so I ask for patience. This letter shall depart ahead of us, but how much ahead depends on luck. You need not ask me to visit for the sake of your son when you've been gravely ill.

As a matter of fact, I_did_ see your husband, only a few months past, thanks to a rather bloody battle with a Navy frigate that left a number of my acquaintances to be ferried. I saw him before I received this last unevenly scrawled note, and I assured him that you were well, so I implore you not to make a liar out of me.

That should have made you laugh, as I hope you shall do often before and after I arrive.

I'll not weigh down this missive with sentiments, only to say that under no circumstances are you to do anything foolish such as worsen while we prepare to sail, and that I do remember the shutters and the sand and the rug, and also the table where you said you first wrote to me.

All my love, and even some borrowed from my more gracious mistress, the sea,

Jack

_Captain Jack Sparrow_

_care of the Kind Innkeeper at_

_The Faithful Bride_

_Shoat Alley_

_Tortuga_

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_March, 1773_

To Mr. Captain Jack Sparrow,

I hope this letter arrives in time to save you a risky crossing to England when in truth it is still too early to sail safely. Sailing to England now will not permit you to see my mother, save for her stone in Lowestoft, below a tree by the shore, as she asked.

My mother received your letter, and she did read it and looked forward to seeing you, but I'm very sorry to say that my mother passed on, not even a week later.

We talked some in her last month, when she could manage. She warned me not to drink the well water or to become a pirate, and she told me lots about you, at the same time she seemed to want me never to have any adventures.

I think you must have been a good friend of my mother's, and my father's, too, and so I am sorry to ask you to relay this news to my ever-sailing father. I would tell him myself, but I only get to see him every ten years, and the last time was terribly complicated with all the things my mother wished me to do and not do, and say and not say.

Did you know him well? What was he like as a young man? Forgive my errors, as my schoolmaster says I'm miserable at writing words of any sort.

Most sincerely,

J.W. Turner

_June, 1773_

To the most brave and sincere J.W. Turner,

Please forgive the delay in answering your letter. It was put into my hands before we departed, and though I instantly comprehended the meaning of the address in an unfamiliar hand, it was some time before I could fathom a coherent reply. Please accept my sincerest condolences on the loss of your mother, who was a fine woman and a very dear friend of mine, as you've noted.

I ask only two things in return for news of your father and any stories of him that I might possess. One, allow me to call you Jack as your mother always refused to, and two, scrape together what you have left and book passage for Port Royal forthwith. I would be greatly honored to meet you there and show you firsthand the kind of adventures your mother, bless her, sought to protect you from.

The task of informing your father is a weighty one, and it remains before me still. As I once said to your mother, those are not tearstains that mar the ink upon this page; rather, some errant drops of rum that she, naturally, would have disapproved of completely.

Pay no heed to your schoolmaster, as your writing seems fine indeed, however, dispense with the "Mr." and address me as either Captain or simply Jack.

Your servant,

Captain Jack Sparrow

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_September, 1773_

Dear Captain Sparrow,

Thank you for your reply and for your condolences and for not correcting my letter and sending it back as my schoolmaster says you ought to have done. But I won't be seeing him much more for reasons I'll tell further on.

As for your requests, I am very sorry to have to refuse both, since you have been a friend of our family for some time. To the first, I can't be called Jack because that is my younger brother's name, which you certainly know since Mother must have written of him. To the second, I haven't got enough for both Jack and me to come to the Caribbean, and I've decided to enlist in the Marines as there's been a lot of talk about the need for infantrymen to assist the Army. I hope to get enough to send home coin to Jack and also feed our dog, who Mother suggested we call Hector right before she took ill.

I ask kindly for any news of my father you may have.

Gratefully,

J.W. Turner

_February, 1774_

Dear J.W.,

You certainly are a brave lad to think of supporting your brother, who, as it happens, your Mother must have forgotten to mention. I estimate he's either eight years old or fifteen, and I'll ask you to please tell me which, although how I know I can't explain just at present.

I would advise you against enlisting, but I suspect you've already set your course, in which case I advise you to keep plenty of powder and shot upon you at all times, and to keep your head down once any shooting begins. All of which, I'm certain, they'll train you to do before they send you after any insouciant Colonists. I would also recommend bearing in mind that you fight for England while England pays you, and that you need feel no sense of patriotic loyalty outside of the usual. You remain most welcome here in the Caribbean, either before or after you have accepted the trammels of military service.

You must know that when I see your father it is not always a happy occasion, and this one was most unhappy indeed. He asked me to say that he shall look forward to seeing you in a little more than two years. He said nothing of your brother, though I'd imagine he's to be included as well. Don't share that bit with the lad, as I'm not certain your father's memory is to be relied upon, but do write to me of young Jack if you will, of his countenance and character.

Yours sincerely,

Captain Jack Sparrow

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_October, 1774_

Dear Captain Sparrow,

I write to inform you that you may not find me at this address any more, for my regiment departs next week for Boston. We are to keep order among the insurgents, as they are calling them, in the Colonies. I shall finally see the ocean from a grand ship and a new place as well.

How strange that Mother never wrote of Jack. I never thought him particularly interesting, but Mother certainly lavished affection upon him as well as on me. He is fifteen, as you correctly deduced, and not good for much of anything as I can tell. He's quite clever but has no wish to work, and lounges about the shore dreaming of Lord knows what. I told him he'll have to take up a trade, and suggested blacksmithing like our father once did, which he rejected outright. He is sore to leave school as he's much better at Latin than I and would be talented at sums if he ever bothered to work them.

I will write when I can, perhaps from Boston. Please give my father my love and tell him I expect to see him in June of '76 wherever he wishes me to find him. I have never succeeded in explaining my father's occupation to any of my schoolmates and have given up trying. I don't expect any better luck in the Marines.

Your friend,

J.W. Turner

_May, 1775_

Dear Private J.W. Turner,

Or however your superiors address you, though I'm sure you're flying up the ranks at a great speed. I have not heard anything from you in Boston as promised, and you shall only rectify my displeasure with a prompt reply saying you're safe back at home in Lowestoft, at least for the time being.

I once again invite you to the Caribbean, as your father seems to do quite a bit of work there, and he might be more easily found come next June. Write to me of young Jack some more, and whether you have found a cure for his excessive indolence; I regret to say I never did find a cure for mine, other than rum.

Your honored friend,

Jack Sparrow

_Captain Jack Sparrow_

_care of the Kind Innkeeper at_

_The Faithful Bride_

_Shoat Alley_

_Tortuga_

_July, 1775_

Dear Captain Sparrow,

Though your letter was addressed to my brother, I hope you don't mind my reading it, as I'm very sorry to say my brother won't be answering any more letters. I got word he died fighting in a place called Conquered in April. Although I guess it wasn't conquered, the place I mean, for the Americans seem to be resisting still. I can't find this place on a map, but I should like to know where he fell. If you know this place, could you kindly tell me where it is?

As for my indolence, I fear it shall lead to starvation for myself and Hector, who is a Fox Hound and eats quite a bit, though he doesn't help much with catching Foxes. It is just the two of us now, and I think I shall take J.W.'s advice to apprentice myself to the blacksmith and earn some coin. If you have any to spare, could you send it? I shall pay it back just as soon as my indolence is cured. I should try some of the rum you suggested to J.W. but I don't think Mother left any here in the house.

As for Father, I do not know where Mother and J.W. met him when I was seven, or I should promise to be there myself. All I remember about that day was Mother crying and telling me I would go when I was older, and I wanted to go meet him but she said I had to stay at home. I suppose she has written to Father and passed letters to you, so I ask you to tell Father I should look forward to meeting him next Spring.

If you happen to pass Conquered please say an Ave so that J.W.'s soul will find its way to Heaven, although my brother never did a bad deed in his life and so I expect it's there already.

Sincerely,

Jack Turner

_September, 1775_

Dear Jack,

I am greatly saddened to hear of your brother's death in the Colonies. This letter shall be brief, as it is essentially an invitation: give Hector, instead of yourself, to the gentle blacksmith and find yourself passage on a ship bound for the Caribbean. You may offer to work as a cabin boy or what have you, only listen to what the sailors have said about the Captain and avoid any ships where they treat the men cruelly.

Do what you must, but come to Port Royal forthwith. There is much for us to discuss about your parents, and brother, and I desire greatly to see you in advance of your reunion with your father.

If you like, we shall sail the coast of the Colonies together when the war is finished, one way or another, and we can stop in Concord to say whatever prayers you wish.

Your faithful Captain,

Jack Sparrow

_Lowestoft, Suffolk_

_December, 1775_

Dear Captain Jack,

A brief reply to say that I shall do as you ask, as soon as I can manage. I think I should sell the cottage in Lowestoft as I doubt anyone shall live here any more. I cannot bring Hector aboard, which saddens me, but the vicar has said he'll care for him. I have few possessions, though I will bring along a bundle of letters Mother seems to have left in my room years ago, and I haven't gone through them, as they seem to be from you and I'll wait for you to peruse them first.

I look forward to leaving Lowestoft by any means, and would do practically anything to ensure my departure as it's terribly dull here, except perhaps for joining the Army as I should dislike being shot at.

Another sailor named Tom has said there is an Inn called the Golden Galleon where we may stay in Port Royal. I will try to send word from Port Royal when I arrive, though I may arrive in Tortuga before my letter would. I am anxious to meet my father, but also to meet you, as my mother always said I was very like you and so I imagine you are at least half as handsome and clever as me.

Until Port Royal, I remain, your distant friend,

Jack Turner

_Mr. Jack Turner_

_care of Kind Innkeeper of the_

_Golden Galleon,_

_Dock Street and Market Lane,_

_Port Royal Jamaica_

_May, 1776_

Dear Jack,

This letter will have been through many hands to reach you, and so I do hope that it finds you, safely journeyed and in good health at the Inn you mentioned in your last letter to Jack Sparrow.

This is news I would prefer to give you in person, and yet it seems that circumstances prevent it. I am quite sorry to say that Jack Sparrow fell to shots fired from a British Navy ship on the deck of his dear _Pearl_, and that I had the distinct honor of bearing him away.

He decided not to remain on the _Dutchman_ as a friend and crewman, as he might have done, but to go along peacefully to what awaits him, or who. But he has told me tales of you, young Jack, and I am quite eager to make your acquaintance. Please accept my apologies for not having met you sooner, and there are circumstances that I must explain to you when we meet.

I shall miss your mother and brother tremendously, as I am sure you do, and yet I feel encouraged at the prospect of knowing your mother's second son. In Tortuga you will meet a man named Mr. Gibbs, who was kind enough to deliver this letter to whomever could assure him it would be taken to Port Royal. Mr. Gibbs shall arrange for us to meet.

Do not think of Concord, nor of illness, or what you have lost. The seas are broad, and you are young; you shall yet find delight in this perilous world, as Captain Jack and I have managed to do in spite of all. I know that your mother would be most proud of you, a sailor born of her own bloodline, no matter what she might have said about the matter of sailing at home.

A fair wind until we shall meet, and I shall embrace you as a son.

I remain, forever, your own Captain,

Will Turner.


End file.
